


Discipline

by orphan_account



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Beating, Gen, Gore, Humiliation, Vomit, hand trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A nastier version of the scene at the end of Miracle Mask. Now with 60% more Descole humiliation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discipline

**Author's Note:**

> For the Professor Layton kink meme. This is the most troublesome thing I’ve written in forever...I literally wrote like four different versions of it because Descole did not want to beg for mercy. Which is in character, I guess. So beating Descole up had to be supplemented by hand trauma.

It was easy to overpower Jean Descole. Even as the man rushed at him, Bronev was ready, and he knocked the wind out of his attacker. A dozen men pinned him as soon as he hit the ground. Descole struggled but the men only held him tighter. Bronev approached at a leisurely pace.

“Secure the servant as well,” he commanded, and more guards surrounded Raymond standing off to the side.

Descole gritted his teeth, frustrated, and tried to shake off his oppressors again. “Unhand me!”

“Now, now, my boy…” Bronev knelt by his side. “Don’t be so rude. Let’s have a look under that mask, shall we?”

He gently slid his fingers along the edge of the mask, though Descole shuddered and shrank away from his touch. As he pried the mask away, Descole lashed out in the only way he could: by biting. Bronev dropped the mask to the ground. One of his fingers was bleeding. He inspected it coolly, his face impossible to read under his beard and dark glasses.

Descole was struggling to loosen his hat so it would slip over his eyes.

“You’re like a poorly trained dog.”

“Be quiet,” Descole growled. “Return that mask to me at once.”

“No, I think not.” Bronev straightened up and put his hands in his coat pockets. “You don’t bite people, boy. Learn some manners.” He gestured to the guards. “Turn him over.”

They did so, exposing Descole’s face to the desert sun. He squinted and tried to turn away.

“Since you want to hide your face so badly, let’s make it unrecognizable.”

Bronev lifted up his shoe and stomped, hard, on Descole’s face; his nose broke with a crunch. Blood ran all over his face and into the dust. Bronev saw him wavering between anger and pain, trying to push aside fear.

Satisfied, he rammed Descole again, in the ribs this time. Descole gave out a tiny, involuntary whine.

“There’s something satisfying about beating dogs.”

He kicked him over and over again, pummeling him in the ribs, stomach, and face, enjoying every impact with the vulnerable body in front of him and the growing pain on Descole’s smug face. The guards seemed to melt away to let Bronev have his way, and Descole curled into a ball under the barrage of blows and tried to defend himself with ineffectually outstretched hands. With the mask gone, the hat askew, the bloody face, the dirty suit, this was so perfectly opposite the image he wanted to present: Bronev could see the shame glowing on his battered face in the half-seconds between blows. When he wasn’t trying to stop the assault, he was covering that face.

            Bronev paused for a moment to let his victim vomit. After a hard kick to the stomach, they always had to.

Descole retched once or twice, kneeling and bent double. With one hand he was desperately trying to keep his hat on as he threw up—there was blood in it. Bronev laughed. Descole looked so confused, as if he’d never thrown up before, spitting and glancing over at Bronev and debating whether or not to wipe his mouth with his ruffled sleeve. Bronev kicked him down again, facefirst into what he had just thrown up.

“Have we learned our lesson?”

Descole hissed out a curse.

“No, we haven’t.” Bronev brought his foot down hard onto Descole’s hand and left it there. “I could have ended it there, boy. But I think I’d rather see you beg.”

“You’ll never—“ Descole started to say, and Bronev stomped on his hand again, so that his defiant statement ended in a cry. “Let me…stand…and fight…”

“I don’t think so, boy. You had your chance.”

He put his other foot on Descole’s back and forced him into the ground, standing on him completely.

“Let me go…”

“Beg for it.”

Bronev extended a hand and one of the soldiers stepped forward and put something into it; a Swiss army knife. Bronev pulled out the knife blade and waved it in front of Descole’s eyes.

“I hope you don’t need all ten fingers, boy.”

Descole’s expression shifted to fear for just a moment.

“I’m not going to cut them off, don’t worry. I couldn’t do that with a little blade like this.” He waved two soldiers over. “Hold him up.”

They held Descole up, hooking their arms under his, and he struggled to keep his legs from collapsing under him; he looked down at his feet, still trying to hide his face. It was red, not just from the blows he’d taken, but from having taken them in front of so many people. Bloody vomit dripped from his mouth.

Bronev took one of Descole’s hands in his and ran the blade of the knife under the nail of his index finger. Descole cried out and tried to take his hand away, but Bronev held it tightly and pried his nail off, slowly. Descole’s hand kept moving and so it was a messy job, but it came off on the point of the knife, with blood and skin.

Descole gritted his teeth and kept his eyes firmly focused on his feet. Bronev began crudely removing the next nail.

“Master…please, just give in. We don’t have time,” Raymond said from where he was still firmly held.

Descole shook his head, unable to speak. His legs had completely given way, so that the soldiers were forced to hoist him up, and he shook with pain, but he didn’t protest still. Bronev finished with the second fingernail and moved onto the third.

“I would have thought that you needed this hand,” Bronev said. “It’s not your dominant one, then, is it?”

Descole spit at him. Tears were glistening in his eyes.

“You really are a fool.” Bronev ran the Swiss army knife through the center of Descole’s hand as far as it would go. He cried out again and bit his lips, struggling to hold back every sound, but just letting out another whine. Bronev twisted the knife to draw out another cry, and then another, enjoying every humiliating whimper he managed to coax out of him. “I don’t think you’ll be using this hand in the future, boy. Not unless you can access an excellent doctor very soon.”

Descole’s hand was limp in Bronev’s grasp and wet with blood.

“Why don’t we make the other hand match?”

“No,” Descole finally choked out.

“’No’? That’s not very polite.” With a hint of glee in his voice, Bronev took Descole’s other hand and touched the point of the bloody knife to it. “Remember what I want you to say.”

“Please,” Descole said, as if the word hurt him.

“That’s not good enough,” Bronev hissed.

“Please…sir,” Descole grunted.

“Drop him,” Bronev told the guards, and they did, and Descole collapsed in a heap at Bronev’s feet. With one foot Bronev nudged away his hat and earflaps, leaving his head and hair completely uncovered. He looked like a different, and much weaker, man.

“Let me be,” Descole wheezed.

“Bark like a dog.”

He rested his foot on Descole’s head until Descole emitted a series of hoarse, weary, labored barks, muffled but strikingly close to what they imitated.

Bronev smiled, and ruffled Descole’s hair. “Good boy. Now here’s your treat.”

In seconds, the soldiers surrounding the two of them were gone, and Bronev himself left without a second glance, to secure the ruin that Descole had worked so hard to obtain. Descole listened to the bustle of them working all around him, and lay in the dust, and covered his face with his hands.

 


End file.
